


The Highwayman

by loviatars



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood Drinking, Eventual Romance, F/M, Harm to Animals, Illnesses, Implied Betrayal, Implied Torture, MC Sold Astarion Out to the Monster Hunter, Reader is an NPC, Robbery, Theft, Vampires, jail break
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:35:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27593534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loviatars/pseuds/loviatars
Summary: Astarion is disinclined to trust the barmaid who's very good at stealing keys off monster hunters. But, he's also had a very bad three days in a wagon-cage heading back to Baldur's Gate and Cazador. No, sleeping in her barn does not sound very nice. But it's better than the alternative.
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Reader
Comments: 23
Kudos: 90





	1. Fibbing

**Author's Note:**

> so i had the Very Sad thought of what would happen to stari if he ended up getting picked up by a vampire hunter, as if he needed more trust issues! this'll be a mini-series of probably three chapters or so before i wrap it up. it's also posted over @ loviatars.tumblr.com <3

You are scared to touch him. You think he will cry out in pain.

He might be warm, you continue to think. Like skin. Or cold from the night seeping between the bars of the cage. His doublet looks frayed and unloved. The man is hungry behind the eyes, but also afraid. But also angry.

“You,” he spits, “who are you? Where am I?”

With troubling speed, the man hurls himself against the side of the cage. The metal rattles and shakes under his pale hands but they do not budge. You watch, wide-eyed and horrified as he grits his teeth against an unseen pain.

You’re stunned to silence, slack-jawed with fear. With a grunt and a mournful sound, the man behind bars slumps down away from them. His palms are singed red, you notice. Whatever the cage is made of is poisoning him.

“Outside the Dying Gull,” you whisper. The man driving the covered wagon didn’t look too friendly, you’d rather he not know you’re speaking to his travelling companion. Or captive. “It’s an inn on the highway, about a week’s hard ride from Baldur’s Gate.”

The man sounds flat, pressing his injured palm to his forehead and being careful not to touch the bars with the back of his neck.

“Well,” he sighs, “I’ve heard far worse news in the past three days. That just leaves who you are.”

“Just the barmaid,” you admit. After a pause, you continue, “If you don’t mind, can I ask a question now?”

“Were I in your position, I may have a few,” the man says. He’s still slumped over, you’re beginning to worry. His hand now covers his eyes, like they hurt. However, his tone is oddly sarcastic for his apparent exhaustion. “By all means, ask.”

“What’s happened to you? Why’s that man got another man locked up in the back of his wagon?” once you’ve opened your mouth you can’t quite stop. The man huffs, either in amusement or annoyance.

“That is two questions, in fact. So now you’ll have to pick just the one,” he says.

“I answered two,” you reply. But you’re inclined to take pity. “Fine, the second one.”

“I am in the company of a very incompetant bounty hunter,” the pale man begins, “who has wrongfully determined my identity to be that of a criminal.”

“Oh,” you tilt your head to the side. Looking into the cage, you see two red eyes swimming in the centre of his pale face when his hand moves. “A criminal might just say that. Are you lyin’ to me?”

“Of course a real criminal would lie, but I am not one in the least,” he insists. He seems to gain a little energy defending his morality, either that or he’s a capable performer. The man sits up until he’s moved away from the bars at his back. “Whatever that Gur says, I am not who he thinks I am.”

You say nothing for a moment, peering through the dark at those deep-red eyes. You decide that he’s lying. But to his credit, he’s a man in a cage. And you find something other than pity welling up in your chest once more.

His anger seems mostly gone now that he knows it was misdirected. The creature looks tired and gaunt, hungry and in pain. Your heart lurches.

“One more question?” you ask. He heaves a sigh.

“Very well, what was it?” he starts, “Right, what in the world has happened to me, well--”

“No,” you stop him. “Not that one, I don’t really want to force you to make up more lies. I just want to know your name. Can you tell me that?”

He seems stricken for a second. And only then does it occur to you that he’s begun to peer back. It’s what sways you to find him innocent, you decide. He looks at you, stares at you and tries to decide if you’ll be the third person to hurt him in as many days.

“Astarion,” he says. “My name is Astarion.”

“Good to meet you, Astarion,” you say. He seems troubled by your good-natured smile, not the least bit comforted by it. But it’s better than a grimace or a look of fear, he seems to reconcile.

Especially when you put your hands on the cage. Then, it appears as if hope’s caught in his eye. The bars don’t burn you, you notice. And you frown. But only for a moment, only as you’re thinking. 

“This won’t be easy to open,” you say. You bring your knuckles down on the metal, eliciting a hollow sound. “Were the whole thing pure silver, it’d buckle under its own weight. But it’s platin’ somethin’ sturdier--”

“And how do you know that?” Astarion asks. You look down at him, your eyes are no longer sizing him up. 

They’ve decided he is neither predator nor prey, as he has with you.

“Da was a goldsmith, he worked with all sorts of precious metals,” you explain. “Means I can identify ‘em, but I’ve not the strength to rip the door straight from its hinges.”

“And I’ve been starved for days,” he confesses, “so I’m far too weak to be of any help.”

The look of empathy on your face is unprecedented. It seems to make Astarion uncomfortable, so you stop it. You turn instead to the door that’s locked tight. A cruel, rusted padlock bolts it shut.”

“Could nick the keys off ‘im,” you muse. You’re not watching the stranger’s face, but it’s more expressive now that it’s been since you tugged the curtain covering the cage aside.

“You would do that for me?” he asks. “You believe me, you would free me?”

“Please,” you huff, “you’re bein’ treated cruelly. And I’ve no reason to trust the man who’s keepin’ you hostage, either. I won’t aid him.”

“Good to know that there’re still a handful of decent souls to be found,” he says, “even if I’ve only noticed a dearth of them.”

“But I don’t believe you in the slightest,” you add. Astarion squeezes his eyes shut.

“I swear to you that I am innocent, what more--” he starts, you cut him off with an unexpected smile.

“I know you’re innocent, I’m choosin’ to believe that. But I also know you’re far from honest,” you say. He cocks an eyebrow.

“Then we have an understanding,” he says. He sounds relieved and you nod.

“I’ll need the key, but I can steal it. Once you’re out, I’ll take you to the barn behind the inn. There’s cattle there,” you tell him. But Astarion bristles with feigned disgust.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” he snaps. 

You try your best not to roll your eyes. Lying, it seems, comes too naturally to him. With the plan laid out before you, you drop the padlock.

“I’m not stupid, Astarion. And you’re a poor liar,” is all you say. And it’s all that he does, too.

When you move to tug the curtain back over the cage, however, Astarion sits up. Panic is back in his eyes, you dislike the sight.

“No. Don’t, please,” he says. He holds his hands out, perilously close to the silver that burns him so badly. “I-- I haven’t seen outside in days. Leave it.”

“Of course, I wasn’t thinkin’,” you say. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, try to stay out of sight of any passers-by.”

You make a point to tug the curtain a little further back, giving Astarion a view of the Gull after dark. He watches you turn away.

The inn glows, light spilling out of its square windows. The Gur inside is still boasting, drinking himself into a stupor that he’ll have to sleep off eventually. But whether he’ll do it here is what worries you, what pushes you back inside and in search of the key that fits the padlock.

As you walk, you can hear the awful voice rising above the din. Part of you wonders if the vampire in the cage is lying to you about everything, for he is a liar at heart. Another knows that either way, what’s being done to him is evil. You pause before you open the door.

It’s time again to commit theft, which calls for a different arrangement of the face.


	2. Stealing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we bacc again bc i had a lot of fun writing this. maybe i'm posting it too quickly but??? shrugs.

There are some that take pleasure in the distress of another, often with a special glee if they think the other has done wrong. But who in the world hasn’t done wrong, you think as you try to maintain an expression that appears interested in what’s being said. It turns out the Gur can talk for quite a while.

It seems his delight with Astarion’s suffering has to do with the fact that he is not a fellow mortal. You’d like to think you’d be ashamed if you felt any way similar.

But he has no shame at all, it seems. Though his version of events is also part-lie, he claims vaguely to be a hunter as well-- and Astarion a prize. While you have no doubt in the verity of both statements, there’s something missing.

You’ve been sitting on a barstool so long your back’s aching. And were it a quicker-paced evening you might be forced to your feet, pouring drinks for the weary on their way to the city. But Gandrel the hunter is the only man still upright, in a manner of speaking. He’s deep in his cups and hasn’t asked for another glass of wine.

“Haven’t I seen you before somewhere,” he asks. And as if he seems to realize the foolishness of that, adds, “Briefly, of course.”

“I don’t think we’ve met, sir, no,” you begin. It isn’t always like this, most types that pass through the Dying Gull hardly notice you. They’re too busy looking at the flagon you set down in front of them.

But it seems Gandrel is smart, even when drunk. And that unnerves you.

“Forgive my asking,” he goes on, “but I think it may’ve been on a wanted poster in Baldur’s Gate.”

Clever enough to remember a face, but not bright enough to say nothing. You scoff, letting your eyes fall to the tops of your boots.

“I meant no offense, you understand,” he says, trying to salvage the interest of a pretty woman. “In fairness, I may be wrong. I couldn’t recall what the poster was for--”

“No, you’re right about where you likely know me from,” you admit. “My face was all over the city for a time.”

“Do you mind if I asked what happened, seeing as I’ve told you stories of my own?” he says. You bite your tongue to keep from telling him that you asked in order to steal from him.

“I was put on trial for theft’n murder, which I did not commit” you say, “course I ran, as any girl’d do.”

“We’ve all been scared,” he says, staring blankly at you. You nod.

“Right. Can I trust you not to say nothin’ when you get back with your quarry?” you ask in turn. “I mean, you are a hunter after all.”

“Not in the way you’d think,” he replies. “My quarry, as you put it, tends to be the bloodthirsty and monstrous kind. And I mean that literally.”

“You’re a monster hunter,” you confirm. He nods. “And the man in the wagon?”

“Not a man,” he corrects, you try not to bristle. “Vampire spawn.”

“Oh, my,” you feign a gasp. But he’s too drunk to notice. “I wonder what he’s done to earn such a fate.”

“I have no idea, it didn’t seem my place to ask,” Gandrel laughs in a way that makes you uncomfortable, “But I suppose its existence could be damning enough.”

“Right,” you reply. “That’s why you haven’t fed him?”

“Would be irresponsible, I thought,” he says. “Doubt it could die again.”

“I hadn’t considered that,” you admit.

He looks at you like you’re pitiable and soft-hearted. Like you’re still a lass on a wanted poster, wrongfully accused. You stare at him back with glassy sweetness, and he is foolish enough to mistake it for sincere.

Gandrel asks for another drink, then. And, dutifully as it is your job, you provide him with one. Though coherent enough to sniff out the gossip up until that point, this last glass makes him slump over the bar.

It’s just as well, you’ve had enough of his mismatched empathy. 

Plucking the obvious loop of keys from his belt as he snores over the bar is like taking sweets from a child. But without the obvious guilt, of course. Stealing freedom from a bad man is one of the nobler things you’ve done, after all.

You sincerely doubt him to be exemplary of anything other than cruelty, though he was right when he insisted to you that not all Gur were awful despite popular opinion. He, unfortunately, happens to be. You leave the Dying Gull with a sneer on your mouth and let the door shut quietly behind you.

Out in the cold night, you wish you’d brought your shawl. Skin turns to ice this close to winter, and you’re almost worried about Astarion as you near the wagon before you remember what he is. 

The canvas drape is still tugged out of the way, letting in lamplight and long shadows. Fear lurches in your heart when you don’t immediately see him huddled in the cage.

“Astarion?” you whisper.

“You’re late,” his reedy voice mumbles back. You hear a shifting, a creaking and a sound like bones being dragged. He pulls himself into the light at the gap in the canvas. “You said an hour, at the very least it has been two.”

“As if you’re any good with time of day,” you scoff. But with more triumph than even you expect, you hold up the ring of keys. 

Their merry jangle seems to shock him out of his joyless ribbing. His eyes, blood-red and glassy with hunger seem to sharpen in the half-light. He sits forward a little bit, though without the energy given to him by anger he lacks the strength to fly at the bars.

“You have them,” he says like he can’t believe it. “I thought for sure you’d be caught by that grubby little--” he cuts himself off when he sees your expression shift to something unamused. “He happens to be annoyingly wise.”

“Though a bit of an idiot at the same moment,” you add. To your surprise, Astarion smirks.

“Are you waiting for me to waste away to nothing?” he asks, his jovial tone now includes a sharpness. But whether it is fear or anger is anyone’s guess.

“My apologies,” you huff, choosing not to start an argument. You walk back around the cage and take hold of the lock. Astarion inches towards where the door will swing open.  
It gives a satisfying click, feeling heavy in your hand when you tug it out of the loops. Pulling the door aside, you stand out of the way.

Though you offer your hand to help, Astarion does not take it as he crawls for the entrance. He stands for the first time in three days and nearly buckles upon doing so. His knees ache from sitting with his back hunched, and his eyes from straining in the dark for so long.

You jump forward, quick enough to wrap an arm about his waist and keep him standing. But before he can lash out, curl or coil away from you as he does-- Astarion notices you are not touching him any more. He’s been propped up against the cage, silver feeling uncomfortably warm with only a frayed doublet between it and his skin.

He decided he didn’t want your help. You only caught him to keep him from splitting his skull open. He gives a quick nod, not in gratitude or thanks. But it’s in acknowledgement, at least.

“You mentioned cattle?” he asks, trying to sound casual and crossing his arms over his chest. Keeping in a laugh is a struggle, but you manage it.

“Be patient while I lock up the cage. I think it best to make it look as if you’re still inside of it,” you rationalize. Astarion rolls his eyes.

“If I had it my way, I’d be strong enough to lock him in there,” he spits. “And to see how he enjoys himself.”

“Yes, and then you’d spurr the horse until it carried him to some other place with people less likely to forgive vampire spawn,” you reply. You don’t fumble with the lock in the least, sliding it back in its place and readying its key.

“I meant that he would be dead,” Astarion mutters. “In addition to being caged.”

“So did I,” you reply. You look back at him with a firm look. “Best that he be kept alive for now. No use murderin’ where it isn’t needed.”

“I don’t have much of a say, I suppose,” he admits. It’s true, he can barely stand. And cows blood will only give him strength enough to run now that his energy’s failed him, “Lead on.”

“Give me just another moment,” you say. “There’s two keys on this ring.”

“And?” he sighs. You’re already walking around the wagon, and though you don’t see him lean his head back against the silver bars-- you hear him hiss when his skin makes contact.

You smirk, tempted to ignore him.

“Odds are it’s not a key to a house, seein’ as he’s a proud wanderin’-type,” you say. 

You crawl up in the wagon and begin to feel over the rough wood. Your fingers brush over a keyhole discreetly placed perpendicular to the seat. A hidden compartment lies under it.

“What are you doing?” Astarion asks more directly, following you around the other side of the wagon and leaning when necessary.

You’re on your knees in the footrest, but you lift your head as a lock clicks open a second time that night.

“I said we couldn’t kill ‘im,” you repeat. “Never said we couldn’t rob ‘im blind.”


End file.
